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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887122">indentation in the shape of you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/elaphoi/pseuds/elaphoi'>elaphoi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Community (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, S6 annie has extreme amounts of top energy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:54:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,699</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887122</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/elaphoi/pseuds/elaphoi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Annie smiles demurely when Britta’s parents meet them on the lobby stairs, and they smile broadly back, thoroughly smitten. They insist on snapping photos with their iPhones, like it’s Britta’s senior prom and she’s got a fresh-picked corsage with Annie’s name on it. Britta turns her face aside, but Annie—with a look of saintly innocence—leans up on her toes to press a kiss to Britta’s cheek. It leaves a print in cool blue-red, just at the corner of her mouth. </p><p>For the camera, of course. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Annie Edison/Britta Perry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>113</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>indentation in the shape of you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Fake Dating AU set in S6—really a set of connected-ish snapshots that got way out of hand. so, if it feels a little All Over The Place, that's probably why.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Annie braces a shoulder against the doorframe, self-conscious. She asks, “How do I look?” and there’s a new quality to her voice, a kind of apprehensive hoarseness. Britta maps the progress of stockinged legs beneath the slip of pearl blue silk and swallows, breathes out. “Woah,” she says, warm and low. “You really went all out, huh?” </p><p>There’s a stain of red in Annie’s face, gradually flooding her cheeks, ruddying the bridge of her nose. She rolls her eyes and dips her head, hiding a pleased smile. “Well,” she scoffs, “If we’re going to do this, we may as well do it right.” She means to sound resigned, so Britta stifles her grin and pretends not to notice the edge of thinly veiled amusement. </p><p>Annie sets her clutch on the chest of drawers beneath the hotel flatscreen and squeezes in front of the mirror. “Excuse you,” Britta says, without venom. “I was using that.” Annie looks back, keen point of her chin cutting into her shoulder, and smiles beatifically. “Not anymore,” she says, and takes Britta’s hands in hers, guides them against the soft skin of her back. “Zip me,” she orders, with the businesslike impatience of a woman well aware she won’t be denied.</p><p>And naturally, she isn’t; Britta owes her now, after all. </p><p>Annie had worked her hair into a sleek French twist, baring her back and shoulders, the tracery of fine hairs at the nape of her neck. Britta sweeps them clean of the zipper’s teeth—gentle, gathered beneath the pad of a thumb—and lays her palm against the ruched silk at Annie’s waist. Annie sucks in her stomach and Britta takes the tab between thumb and forefinger, tugs. The white expanse of skin vanishes like a magician’s trick, swallowed up in pale silk. “Thanks again,” Britta murmurs, bordering on sheepish, addressed to Annie’s back—raised column of her spine, fawn-colored beauty mark dotting the slope of a shoulder. </p><p>She shrugs, the skin of her back pulling taut beneath Britta’s hands, and says softly, “Any time,” like Britta hadn’t wheedled for hours before Annie consented to come. She’s certain Annie had agreed only because Britta pushed the proper buttons: first challenging (Britta: “I’m sorry, I’m totally freaking you out, aren’t I? Forget I said anything,” and Annie, indignant, defensive: “Britta, I’m not freaked out. I just think it’s kind of weird, that’s all.”) then flattering (Annie, despairing: “Can’t you find some other girl?” and Britta, grinning: “Sure. I don’t want some other girl; I want you.”) until Annie had huffed a sigh and nodded. </p><p>“One night,” she’d warned, pink-cheeked, nose screwed up with the beginnings of a patented Annie Edison glare. “And just so you know, I still think this is really immature of you.” </p><p>It is, Britta knows—or might have been, provided it actually worked. </p><p>Britta had brought home a girlfriend once, in her senior year of high school: Posey Stevens, pink-haired and punkish and pretty. Britta’s parents had stamped out <em> that </em> impulse quickly enough, and she had anticipated, with an edge almost of desperation, more of the same from them now; some impassioned, homophobic tirade, incontrovertible proof George and Deb Perry were (beneath their newfound looseness, their easy smiles) the same hard, merciless creatures Britta remembered from her childhood. </p><p>Instead, Britta’s mother had gasped, clapped her hands together and called from the kitchen, “George, Britta’s bringing her little friend Annie to the wedding. Isn’t that sweet?” like maybe she didn’t remember the way she’d shrieked when she caught Britta kissing Posey in the eaves beneath the back porch. </p><p>So, maybe this isn’t the scandal Britta had been angling for, but she’s still here anyway, in their shared lodge room in the Rockies, working a cautious finger beneath the strap of Annie’s dress to smooth it flat. </p><p>Go figure, huh? </p><p>Annie smiles demurely when Britta’s parents meet them on the lobby stairs, and they smile broadly back, thoroughly smitten. They insist on snapping photos with their iPhones, like it’s Britta’s senior prom and she’s got a fresh-picked corsage with Annie’s name on it. Britta turns her face aside, but Annie—with a look of saintly innocence—leans up on her toes to press a kiss to Britta’s cheek. It leaves a print in cool blue-red, just at the corner of her mouth. </p><p>For the camera, of course. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Their entrance raises eyebrows—enough, at least, to assuage Britta’s sense this had all been for nothing. There’s a tight smile from Britta’s aunt as she asks, “How long have the two of you been, ah...seeing each other?” and Annie—never one to commit half-heartedly—tangles their fingers together, buries her head against Britta’s shoulder. “Just a few weeks,” Britta says, and Annie tips her chin higher, turns wide eyes on Britta and murmurs sweetly, “Has it only been a month? It feels so much longer, doesn’t it, baby?” </p><p>“Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?” Britta snorts when they’re alone, claiming their seats at Table 12—still (blissfully) empty. Her forearm prickles, not unpleasantly, where Annie had leaned against it, mouth pressed to the skin.    </p><p>Annie frowns, looks over her shoulder—like maybe she’s worried Britta’s parents had wiretapped the banquet hall—and says, hushed, “We <em> are </em> supposed to be dating, aren’t we?” Her mouth pulls at one corner. “Maybe you need to loosen up.” </p><p>Britta chooses not to comment on the irony of that advice from Annie’s mouth; it’s low-hanging fruit, she thinks. She rocks back in her chair, lets it seesaw precariously onto two legs. “You didn’t even want to come,” she says. It comes out sounding sullen, like she’s some prepubescent kid on the verge of a major snit, and Annie suppresses a knowing smile. </p><p>“I’m here, aren’t I?” Annie counters, not unreasonably. She makes a grab for her flute of champagne, but Britta catches her halfway to it—folds a hand over Annie’s, pinning it down to the table. “Uh-uh. Don’t drink that,” she says, definitively. </p><p>Annie arches a brow—just the sort of precisely calibrated, condescending gesture she’d gotten down to a science in recent years. But she sits obediently back in her seat, and concedes to wait until Britta returns, precariously balancing tequila shots. She plucks two glasses for herself, mercifully freeing Britta’s hands, and sets them on the table—blinks up at Britta, considering, and then firms her resolve, reaches for the nearer glass and downs it expertly. There’s the faint, residual sheen of liquor on Annie’s mouth; she wipes it clean with the back of a balled fist. </p><p>Britta, trying her best not to stare, extends a waiting hand. “C’mon.” </p><p>“And we’re going where?” Annie asks, suspicious. Britta declines to answer. Annie stands anyway—against her better judgment, if her sigh of long-suffering exasperation is any indication—and lets Britta guide her through the growing press of people. The reception is in full swing, pop ballads blaring from the DJ’s speakers, and Britta’s relieved to reach the quiet, isolated haven of the bathroom. She closes the door behind them and locks it with a click, serenely disregarding the noise of muffled disapproval from Annie. Hefts herself onto the countertop, the polished marble a cool kiss against her bare thighs, and grins. </p><p>Annie’s already fussing with her hair in the mirror—stubbornly determined to remind Britta of a bathroom’s intended purpose. It doesn’t register; Britta’s unfazed, blissfully absorbed in putting away her second tequila. It burns going down, lodges itself in the pit of her stomach where it unfurls in lazy tendrils of heat. Feeling pleasantly loose, Britta shifts and looks over her shoulder at Annie; she’s still preoccupied with her reflection, picking at some nonexistent blemish on her chin.</p><p>“Please,” Britta snorts; she’s sober enough to recognize the slurred quality of her voice, and inebriated enough not to care. “Like you don’t look perfect already.” She’s braced—in her drunken, untroubled way—for some scathing response, but Annie’s quiet, and her eyes are blown. “Scoot over,” she says, finally—a nonanswer. Britta does, and Annie vaults up beside her, sticking the landing with a perfectionist’s grace. She guesses Annie’s developed a higher alcohol tolerance than she had at nineteen, when one screwdriver was enough to send her reeling. </p><p>Either that, or Annie’s in need of a chaser or several. The night is young, after all—like, really, extremely young. </p><p>“Hello, Earth to Britta!” Annie’s fanning an open palm inches from Britta’s nose. </p><p>“I’m listening,” Britta says, though she hadn’t been. “Geez.” </p><p>“Of course you were.” It isn’t a vote of confidence; <em> that’s </em> clear enough from Annie’s tone. She takes her time settling, crosses her legs—daintily, at the ankles, like some debutante at finishing school. Finally, she turns to Britta. “So, the plan is what? Barricade ourselves in here all night?” Her brow knits. “Doesn’t that kind of defeat the point?” Britta waits, knowing Annie well enough, by now, to anticipate more of the same. And then, as if on schedule: “Britta, you know <em> someone </em> will want to use the bathroom eventually, right?” </p><p>Britta narrowly avoids rolling her eyes. “You done yet?” she asks, officially catapulting Annie past the realm of mild disapproval into thoroughly mutinous territory. “Just <em> one </em> more itty bitty little drink to start the night, okay?—if that’s cool with her royal majesty.” </p><p>Annie’s mouth makes that familiar ‘O’ of mingling anger and surprise. Britta nearly smiles, looking at her—residual schadenfreude, probably. Or something like that. “Bottom’s up,” she says, blithely raising the glass to her lips, and—Annie swipes it clean out of her hands. “Bottom’s up,” Annie agrees, in that voice of hers—the one that walks the metaphorical tightrope between sweet and deeply threatening. She knocks it back with one neat, practiced motion of her wrist, and her smile doesn’t slip as it goes down. </p><p>“Oh,” Britta gasps. “You little brat!” </p><p>“Don’t be so dramatic,” Annie tells her. This, Britta decides, is nearly as galling as her earlier advice to loosen up, since she’s pretty sure Annie <em> invented </em> histrionics—or perfected them, at least. “I’ll get you another,” she adds, though Britta hadn’t asked; actually, she’s beginning to warm to the whole thing, mostly because she’s kind of curious to see what Annie’s like on the other side of multiple tequilas. </p><p>Britta gets her answer, maybe a little too quickly for comfort. </p><p>Annie’s got one palm braced flat against the countertop, steadying herself; she moves to hop down and stumbles, flings out a frantic arm—seizes on Britta’s thigh, gripping tightly enough to bruise. Britta winds an arm around Annie’s waist, righting her firmly. She expects Annie to redden and recoil, compelled by the knee jerk reaction of her pride—but maybe Britta had misjudged her tolerance, given too much credit in advance. Because Annie leans back, rests her head against Britta’s chest, and huffs a shaky breath. </p><p>Britta can’t help herself; she whistles low between her teeth. “Still a lightweight, huh, Edison?” She’s got Annie gathered in her arms, chin tucked over the slope of a snowy shoulder, like Annie’s just swallowed a choking hazard and Britta’s all set to perform the Heimlich maneuver. Annie looks back, craning to get a good glimpse of her, like she expects to lock eyes with someone—anyone—other than Britta. She’s close enough for Britta to decide, conclusively, that the blemish Annie had been fussing over is—in fact—nonexistent.</p><p>“Uh,” Britta offers, helpfully. Which, okay, she isn’t exactly at her most eloquent right now. It works, though—ends the moment; breaks the spell, or whatever. Annie wrenches free, twin points of color flaring in her cheeks. She staggers back, heels beating out a sharp staccato against the tile. </p><p>“Be nice,” she warns, still breathless, “Or you’re not getting anything.” </p><p>Her thigh’s throbbing in dull, percussive rhythm where Annie had fisted her nails in the flesh. Britta skims an experimental hand over the marks, runic pattern of indentations, and murmurs, unthinkingly, “I can be nice.” </p><p>Annie is surprised, and then pleased. “Good,” she says, with satisfaction, and turns briskly  on her heel. Britta watches her retreating back, thumb still rubbing out circles against the skin Annie had clawed.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Britta’s father corners them on the threshold of the lady’s bathroom, flushed with his fifth gin and tonic. He grins—all teeth—and says, “There you two lovebirds are!” like he’d been searching for hours. “Cousin Angela’s been dying to meet your, ah…” He brings the glass to his mouth and drinks deeply. </p><p>“Girlfriend,” Annie supplies. She moves to say something more and breaks off abruptly, expelling a hiss between her teeth as Britta grips her arm, sinking nails into flesh.  </p><p>“Actually,” Britta says, in a rush, “we were just about to dance.”       </p><p>Annie blinks. “We were?” </p><p>“It’s her favorite song.” Britta summons a smile for her father, conspiratorial. “You know how it is.” </p><p>Annie’s bewilderment hardens into something less forgiving; her jaw works around an angry tic, and she rounds on Britta the moment they’re alone again. “Cotton Eye Joe?” she snaps. “My favorite song is Cotton Eye Joe?” But Britta’s already interlocking their fingers, pulling Annie along behind her, enjoying—perversely—the inevitable stream of protests; her name on Annie’s lips: “Britta!” high-pitched, exasperated. </p><p>Britta winks. “It’s an American classic,” she hums, pleased—and ducks beneath an outstretched arm, Annie stumbling to keep pace behind her. Her nose wrinkles. “You do know how, don’t you?” </p><p>“Of course I know how,” Annie scoffs. “This isn’t my first wedding, Britta.” Her hand’s still caught up in Britta’s—warm, clammy press of their palms; thumb hooked over Britta’s wrist, exposing the faint thrum of her pulse. It’s hot here, amid the press of people—lines of sweating bodies in chiffon and Duchess satin, shuffling and stomping and twirling in idiotic unison. </p><p>Britta shucks off her shoes, gestures smugly. “Well?” And Annie rolls her eyes, softening by degrees. “Fine,” she says, mouth twitching at a grin, and falls neatly into step beside her. Except Britta’s...maybe, possibly more inebriated than she’d thought. She looks up, and the ceiling vaults; squints ahead, into the crowd, and turns dizzy; looks at Annie—spinning like a top in pastel heels—and laughs until her throat is hoarse, laughs until Annie comes careening into her shoulder face-first. </p><p>The room swims, and Britta winces, waiting on a remonstration that never comes. Annie’s flushed and laughing, and her curls have come half-free of their pins. She murmurs something, mouth at the shell of Britta’s ear. “What?” Britta shouts, and Annie says (louder, through peals of laughter),  “I think I’m drunk!” </p><p>She is—must be, Britta thinks; her eyes are unfocused, smile ripe and sweet and strange. Maybe that’s why Annie doesn’t notice she’s twisted her ankle until she leans her weight on it. She shifts back on her heels, lets out all her breath in a whoosh. “You good?” Britta asks, and Annie bites down hard, bleeding color from her bottom lip. Her mouth opens and closes abruptly, like she knows she won’t be heard over the music—opening bars to the Electric Slide, Britta’s pretty sure. </p><p>Gee, what a show stopping lineup.  </p><p>Britta murmurs something soft and meaningless Annie won’t hear (“Okay. C’mere.”) and slides an arm around Annie’s waist. She’s kicking herself, just a little—because doing the Cotton Eye Joe drunk in stilettos is apparently some brand of lethal contact sport, and even on a fake date she’s kind of the worst. </p><p>Annie half-walks, half-hobbles through the lobby double-doors, emerging into brisk mountain air. Britta lowers her down—delicate touch, like Annie’s made of porcelain—onto the lip of a cobblestoned fountain. “I twisted my ankle,” Annie tells her, pink with embarrassment. “I’m not dying.” Her brow furrows and then, reluctantly, peering down: “It’s not bad, is it?” </p><p>Britta’s kneeling already, skin of her bare knees scraping stone. She asks, “This one, right?” and gingerly turns Annie’s foot on its side, squinting beneath the flood of gauzy lamp-light. Annie sucks breath in sharply, and that’s answer enough. She hooks a thumb inside, eases the heel free and sets it aside—gently, like it’s Cinderella’s glass slipper, not a patent-leather pump from the Macy’s clearance rack. And Annie, patiently obliging, works the pantyhose down over her thighs-calves-ankles, to pool at her feet. </p><p>“It’s, uh. Kind of purple, but I don’t think anything’s, like—sprained.” Britta’s sheepish, suddenly—because of course it isn’t sprained; it’s hardly bruised. And Britta’s got the pale slip of Annie’s ankle cradled in her hands like it’s in urgent need of medical attention.  </p><p>“Is that your professional opinion?” Annie asks—one brow raised, smiling like she’s trying not to laugh. </p><p>“I don’t know,” Britta says, testy now. “You’re the doctor.” </p><p>Annie makes a disapproving noise. “I’m a <em> forensics </em> major.” </p><p>“Whatever! Same difference.” </p><p>Annie seems on the verge of explaining exactly how it <em> isn’t </em> the same—not even close, actually, Britta—but thinks better of it. She’s smoothing her stockings over her leg when she looks up, nose scrunched in that way it gets when there’s something on her mind she can’t work out. Tentative, she ventures, “Um...Britta? Your parents seem so nice. Why d’you wanna upset them so badly?” Annie averts her eyes, plucks at a run in her nylons. “I mean, that’s the whole reason you asked me to come, right?” </p><p>“Yeah,” Britta mutters. She looks up at Annie—silk of her dress bunched around her hips; one foot tucked beneath a knee, the other dangling over the fountain edge, stockinged toe just grazing Britta’s leg. “I mean, pretty much.” </p><p>Annie frowns. “But...”</p><p>Britta snorts, like this is a joke and the punchline’s just landed. “Yeah, they’re real nice now, huh? And I’m supposed to—what, pretend that makes it okay?” She stamps out the urge to keep going—spill more of herself, press for Annie’s sympathy. Like it’s worth the effort of dredging up long-buried trauma only to spite them—chip at the veneer of parental perfection, watch it peel apart in fat flakes, exposing rot beneath. </p><p>Because it wouldn’t be pretty, but it would be real, at least—and that’s better than feeling crazy all the fucking time. </p><p>Annie sucks her lower lip between her teeth, chews thoughtfully. Then, softly: “No. Of course not.” </p><p>It makes Britta’s pulse quicken—Annie’s belief, and given so readily. She shifts, knuckles brushing Annie’s leg through the roughness of her stockings, and feels Annie tense beneath her. Annie waits, in quiet anticipation, as if for some expansion on the topic, the tidal wave of childhood trauma unleashed at last. Instead, Britta looks to her, grinning, and says: “I have an idea.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>So, they disappear—sort of, anyway. </p><p>They sprint up the central staircase—Annie half-hopping, leaning heavily on Britta—and ride the elevator straight up, as high as it goes. Several stories up and they peer over the balustrade and down into the lobby, at the partygoers reduced to minuscule pinpricks of color. They let their legs hang over the edge, bare feet kicking the air, and contemplate their stolen treasure: bottles of hard cider, box of pastries, thick slabs of wedding cake. </p><p>Britta hadn’t thought to grab utensils, and so she tears off a handful of cake and jams it in her mouth. Annie groans, “Britta, gross!” and her face is all screwed up in that way that only makes Britta want to mess with her more. “Fine,” Britta says, “More for me,” and shovels in a second helping, liking the way Annie’s eyes track her movement—crinkled at the corners, with a kind of reluctant fondness. </p><p>Feeling bold, Britta glides a finger over the groom’s name, piped in silvery icing, and smears it down the bridge of Annie’s nose. “For good luck,” she says, a little hoarsely. </p><p>Annie makes a face. “Um...I’m pretty sure that only works for birthdays?” She leans forward anyway, makes a grab for Britta’s near-demolished cake. Her tongue pokes out as she brings a thumb against Britta’s nose, like she’s engaged in something that requires her focused attention—applying makeup, or painting a portrait. Britta holds perfectly still until Annie sits back on her heels, pops her thumb in her mouth and sucks off excess frosting. “There,” she says, satisfied. “Now we match.”  </p><p>There’s music filtering out from the hall—some upbeat track off Billboard’s Hot 100, echo-distorted. Britta knocks back the rest of her cider, mostly just for something to do with her hands. She leans back on her palms—eyes half-closed, feeling pleasantly light—as one song fades into the next. It’s a ballad, slow and syrupy—the sort of sentimental mush Britta’s liable to skip when it comes up on Spotify. And Annie says, wistfully, “I love this song,” because of course she does. </p><p>Britta props herself up on an elbow, cocks one eye open. “I dunno. Kinda gushy, isn’t it?”</p><p>Annie gives her a withering look. “You don’t have a single romantic bone in your body, do you?” she asks.  It shouldn’t sting as much as it does. Britta makes an angry sound in the back of her throat, already scrambling for a viable defense—but Annie sways tipsily into her and presses a silencing finger to her lips. “Y’know,” she says, expression gravely serious, “You <em> could </em> ask me to dance.”     </p><p>“Annie,” Britta says, muffled beneath Annie’s touch, “I’m not really the dancing type.” </p><p>“Some date you are,” Annie scoffs. She makes no move to withdraw her hand, and Britta’s forced to take hold of her wrist and wrench it aside. </p><p>“Pretend date,” Britta reminds her—reminds herself, too. There’s a kind of buzzing sensation building beneath Britta’s skin, like maybe her last cider had marked one too many. Britta’s still got a firm grip on Annie’s wrist, rooting her to the spot—Annie’s head bowed, soft ends of her hair tickling Britta’s jaw, batting those big old doe eyes like it’s her job. </p><p>“It’s just us,” Annie says, quiet. “No one’s watching.” Like it matters, when Britta’s entire extended family thinks they’re dating. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but she must have because Annie rolls her eyes and says, “That’s not real,” which is maybe supposed to imply this<em> is</em>—real, that is. </p><p>Whatever the hell <em> that </em> means. </p><p>Britta stands, pulling Annie with her. She kicks off her shoes, digging her toes into the plush carpet. “Okay,” she breathes, steeling herself, and Annie smiles. She takes Britta’s hands in hers and directs them, with gentle insistence—one over the small of her back, another laid against the indent of her waist. “Okay?” Annie murmurs, and Britta nods, once. </p><p>It’s maybe two minutes before Annie stumbles, stamping down on Britta’s toes with the heel of her foot. Britta hisses beneath her breath, some filthy expletive that sends Annie into gales of laughter. And it’s easier after, somehow. They don’t dance so much as sway drunkenly from side to side, but it’s nice anyway. Annie buries her face against Britta’s shoulder, nose tucked into the crook of her neck like it’s nothing—like they do this all the time. </p><p>It’s starting to feel like maybe they should.  </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They head back eventually. </p><p>The party’s dying down by the time they slip inside—dance floor nearing empty; Britta’s WASPish relatives shouldering their oversized Michael Kors purses, bending to impart goodnight kisses. Annie asks, sleepily, “Shouldn’t we dance?” as if Britta’s parents—tucked away in some distant corner, fawning over the bride and groom—are liable to notice, much less care, one way or another.  </p><p>Britta kicks back in her seat, grinning. “Can’t get enough of me, huh?”</p><p>In the dark, Britta can just make out Annie’s answering frown. “You know what I mean,” she says—even though Britta doesn’t, really. “We’re not being very…” Annie trails off, looks back over her shoulder, stage whispers, “...convincing.” </p><p>It shouldn’t technically matter—because Britta’s whole misguided attempt to scandalize her parents had pretty much blown up in her face, and Annie’s only here at all because she’d been too embarrassed to renege on the lie. Except Britta’s head is sort of swimming, and Annie’s inching her chair closer, and Britta says, without entirely meaning to, “Then let’s convince them.” </p><p>Annie stands, barefoot and teetering precariously all the same. Her hands move to grip Britta’s shoulders, nails digging half-moons into her back, and she lowers herself down until she’s settled in Britta’s lap. There’s still frosting on Annie’s nose, dried to a silvery crust. Britta pops her thumb in her mouth and she’s half-finished rubbing the skin clean before she realizes this is weird, probably. Like, okay—<em>all </em> of this is weird, so her perspective’s probably pretty skewed right now, but still. “Sorry,” she says. “Was that weird? That was definitely weird.” </p><p>Annie’s nose scrunches. “Kind of weird, I think?” she decides, not unkindly. Annie shifts positions, scratchy material of her stockings chafing the skin of Britta’s thighs raw. “Is anyone looking?” Annie asks, in murmured undertones. Britta had almost forgotten to care—but she cranes her neck and peers dutifully over Annie’s shoulder at the cluster of relatives holding court nearby. And oh, they’re looking alright—even if that maybe has less to do with Britta’s sudden onset of lesbianism and more to do with the very-not-PG-13 way Annie’s draped over her. </p><p>“Your parents, too?” Annie asks, sounding pleased. </p><p>“Parents, too,” Britta confirms. “Not loving it.” </p><p>“Good,” Annie says, and bends to kiss her. Britta forgets, briefly, how to breathe—and then she’s winding an arm around Annie’s waist, pulling Annie flush against her. Annie takes it in stride—hitches her thighs higher, grins against Britta’s mouth. And this isn’t <em> real</em>, Britta knows that; of course she does. But Britta pushes into Annie’s mouth, maybe a little too eagerly for the purposes of playing pretend, and Annie makes—oh, God, she makes this <em> sound, </em>high and breathy.</p><p>Behind them, Britta’s father coughs his disapproval—but Annie shifts and buries her teeth in Britta’s bottom lip, and Britta hardly hears him. Because, okay, maybe (definitely) there’s a special place in hell reserved for Britta just for thinking it, but here’s the thing: Annie Edison knows how to fucking kiss. </p><p>Annie sits back, wide-eyed, like she’s surfacing from some kind of trance state. She runs a thumb over Britta’s mouth, where the skin’s bitten pink. “Sorry,” she says, abashed. </p><p>And Britta laughs, because what else <em> can </em> she do, really? Because she’s kind of freaked out right now, and—frankly, maybe—kind of turned on; and because it’s so, so like Annie to approach even the task of pissing off Britta’s parents like a homework assignment. </p><p>Annie smacks her forearm, hard enough to embed a blazing red palm-print in Britta’s skin. She sits back, arms folded almost imperiously; it might have impressed Britta more, if Annie hadn’t still been curled up in her lap. “What’s so funny?” she demands, and Britta chews at the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing again. </p><p>“Nothing,” Britta tells her, and flashes a smile, all teeth. “Pretty sure you just aced the extra credit.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They climb into bed still dressed. </p><p>Britta’s halter is cutting into her back, and she’s kind of half-heartedly plucking at the knot when Annie turns to face her. Her mascara’s smudged at the corners, and there are pins poking out from the nest of her curls, and Britta thinks her situation is probably a little more dire by comparison. She reaches, groaning, for the pack of Neutrogena wipes on the end table and starts to dab at Annie’s eye, at the smear of black makeup that makes her look not entirely unlike a raccoon. </p><p>Annie squeezes one eye obediently shut, the other trained blearily on Britta’s face. “Thanks, Britta,” she murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion. Britta intends to answer, but she’s preoccupied with working the knots from Annie’s hair, and before long she finds it’s too late. Annie cants her head to one side, readily granting access—and Britta moves with her, easing loose one stubborn pin, a second and third, until the comforter is covered with them. </p><p>“Britta.” </p><p>“Uhuh?” She’s attempting to prise free a fourth pin, wedged in tightly beneath Annie’s ear—but Annie lays a stern hand over Britta’s, holding her still. Her brow is furrowed, like it gets when she’s trying to work out a complex problem in class. </p><p>“Shouldn’t we talk about what happened?” Annie asks, soft. She’s shrouded in hazy half-light from the lamp on her—their?—bedside table, and Britta has to squint to make out her features: the dark hair fanned out against the pillowcase; mouth pursed around the leftover, pinkish smudge of Britta’s lipstick, and those big, expectant eyes. Britta’s propped on a palm, blinking dazedly down at her—and honestly, talking isn’t really what she’s got in mind. Which—oh, God. Oh, God. </p><p>Britta drops onto her side, facing Annie—and Annie draws breath sharply, but she doesn’t pull back. Her lips are parted like an invitation, so Britta dips her head and presses their mouths together. She’s giddy, surprised with her own daring—until the nerves kick in, and then it’s like her heart’s trying to punch a hole through her ribcage. Like she’s fourteen again, kissing Danny Martinez in the backseat of his car, and it’s just the barest brush of their mouths, at first—but that’s enough to make her dizzy.</p><p>It’s like that now, too, close-mouthed and grazing and sweet. Britta’s skin is prickling, and she’s grateful, suddenly, for the dim lighting, because she’s pretty sure she’s turning red. She says, “Jesus, I’m sorry,” and there’s more lined up at the tip of her tongue, about how that kiss had been totally out of line, and she knows they’re not actually a thing, of course, and she probably had <em> way </em> too much to drink at the party, not that that’s an excuse or anything, but—then Annie pitches forward to crash their mouths together again, and Britta loses her train of thought entirely. </p><p>Annie kisses hungrily, rising up on her palms to bear down on Britta, driving her deeply into the mattress. She’s got Britta’s hands pinned to her pillow, kissing her in brief, teasing bursts—drops her mouth to Britta’s, and retreats and returns and retreats again, like the tide breaking against the shoreline. Greedily, Britta wrenches both hands free of Annie’s hold and curls her fingers in the skin of Annie’s shoulders, yanking her down. Annie collapses against her with enough momentum to knock the breath from Britta’s body; it’s worth it, though, for the press of Annie’s chest over her own, the noise of muffled surprise Annie makes into her mouth. </p><p>And Britta can’t help but take advantage of Annie’s distraction, tease apart Annie’s lips and kiss her soundly, until the left-over stickiness of Annie’s last cider fills her own mouth, too. Annie moans low in her throat, and nips at Britta’s bottom lip—tentatively, at first, and then with an intensity that leaves her mouth tender, swelling around the lingering points of Annie’s teeth. She nearly sighs her frustration when Annie—with a visible, concentrated effort—tears herself away and settles with her cheek cushioned against the pillow, eyes fixed on Britta’s kiss-reddened mouth. </p><p>“Britta. What are we doing?” Her voice is still sleep-heavy; with the finger of her free hand, she traces the line of Britta’s jaw, raising gooseflesh beneath the path of her thumb. Britta shivers with the intimacy of that touch—and then swallows, embarrassed by her own transparency. Stupid. </p><p>She says, quietly, “I don’t know,” and then, like it hardly matters one way or another, “If you want to stop…”</p><p>“No,” Annie breathes—hushed, but emphatic enough to banish Britta’s doubt. She curls in closer to sweep the hair back from Annie’s shoulder. And Annie holds herself perfectly, expectantly still as Britta applies her mouth to the soft expanse of Annie’s chest, beneath the raised wing of a collarbone. She makes an appreciative sound as Britta moves lower, peeling Annie’s dress aside to mark the skin beneath it with teeth and tongue, leaving in her wake constellations of tender pink patches. Annie squirms, delightedly, and murmurs, “Britta,” in that voice of hers, still hoarse for want of sleep. </p><p>Britta looks up—because she can’t <em> not </em> when her name is in Annie’s mouth and it sounds like <em> that </em>—and Annie wrenches her down for another kiss. It’s of the sloppy, bruising variety, and Annie’s hands are firm around her thighs, working up her dress like some overzealous high school jock copping a feel beneath the bleachers. She sinks her nails into the skin, as if in spiteful retaliation for the marks Britta had peppered across her chest, but Britta’s too far gone to care. “Annie,” she groans—and then, when Annie pointedly ignores her, in favor of sucking at a spot just below Britta’s ear, more persistently: “Annie.” </p><p>With an irritable tic of her jaw, Annie falls back against the pillows. “Yes?” she demands, huffy with impatience; it shouldn’t be as hot as it is—but then, she guesses that’s par for the course where Annie’s concerned. </p><p>Annie keeps a possessive hand on Britta’s thigh, creeping inexorably higher as Britta leans in, flushed and grinning, and says, “Wanna really stick it to my parents?” At this, Annie rolls her eyes—but her teeth lodge sharply in her lower lip, showing her hand even before she resolves to shift in closer, hips rocking into Britta as she does. Britta’s fixated on that friction, until a hand flicks aside the thin straps of her dress and plunges beneath the neckline, catches a nipple beneath thumb and forefinger and coaxes it into stiffness. “I was getting to that,” comes Annie’s voice, reprimanding, from the murky dark, “before you interrupted.” </p><p>The motion of Annie’s fingers stills, and she adds, “Unless you have something to add?” </p><p>There’s a current of something raw beneath the self-assured facade, a hesitance, or nervousness—and Britta gentles with the realization. She reaches behind her back and works the clasp on her bra, lets her breasts spill out against Annie’s waiting hands. “Nothing,” she says, noting Annie’s sudden wide-eyed bewilderment with a glint of amusement.</p><p>“I’m all yours.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Is this desperately in need of an epilogue? Yes. Will I write one? Unclear! Thank you for reading, and TRULY thank you for comments and kudos ❤️</p></blockquote></div></div>
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